by Karin Rumie

When you’re down to nine dollars and six cents on your bank account, you say yes if Sadie asks you to work a double shift. Sadie, who ends every sentence with hon like she’s your grandmother instead of two years older than you, was just promoted to assistant manager.

You paste a smile across your face and focus your gaze on some faraway place while handing menus to the UM boys who sit at one of your tables. The alpha dog of the group looks at you like you’re on the menu. He asks where you’re from and you say Miami even though you’ll always be from Brooklyn, but he says he means “originally” from.

Sadie says that corporate does not like us to rush customers but your feet are throbbing and it’s going on two hours so you ask – in a friendly way – if they’d like the check. Alpha Dog tells you he’ll take another Rubia and your phone number while his milky blue eyes linger on you. You consider giving him a fake number but something about the way he says this makes you chuckle out loud. You set his beer down with the unsolicited check next to it and, from the way his nostrils rise slightly, you know you’ve just blown any chance of a good tip.

After your shift, you remember the Heat game and picture the metro — crawling with suburbia riff raff — and decide to walk the ten blocks to your apartment.

***

Carlos stands at his usual spot near the metro station, a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth.

You hand him the grease-stained paper bag, which he accepts with the usual polite nod. He’s never spoken to you even though you’ve been bringing him sandwiches for a year. So, you invent stuff about him, such as his name being Carlos.

With his graying hair in a ponytail and tucked-in shirt, Carlos looks more college art teacher than homeless guy. Once, when he took the sandwich you’d brought him, you glimpsed the familiar tattoo on his forearm. Your dad had been a New York City firefighter and the tattoo with the FDNY initials was one of the few things you remember about him.

In one of your imaginary stories, Carlos and your dad were good friends. After a while, they even start to look alike. Before you can stop yourself, you start to remember your father and then your mom and the three of you together before everything went to shit.

At the traffic light, you glance back and see Alpha Dog behind you. He’s alone now.

“Hey, I forgot to tip you,” he says. “Don’t you want your tip?”

You cross the street, planning to duck into a bar but forgot this part of Wynwood is all warehouses. You remember the Oprah episode you watched with your grandmother once, where the retired cop said to stand your ground. You turn around and tell him to leave you alone.

He moves closer, forcing you to step back toward the alley. The smell of sour milk on his breath makes you gag. Your annoyance turns to fear and you pull out the can of mace you’ve been gripping in your purse. He sneers and knocks it right out of your hand.

Standing there, feeling like prey, you steal a glance at the mace can that has rolled next to your foot. Before you can move, he kicks it away, pushing you into the wall.

His hand is over your mouth while his other hand is under your shirt pawing and squeezing. You try to push him away but his body is heavier than it looks. It’s becoming hard to breathe.

For a second, his hand loosens enough for you to open your mouth and sink your teeth into it. His sneer turns to a grimace and a faint hope returns to you until he punches you in the stomach and now, you’re doubled over.

He hisses something at you that you can’t hear because all your senses seem to be only focused on oxygen. When the breath finally comes, you open your mouth to scream but all you hear is the thud of your head hitting concrete and the world turns black.

***

Later – you’re not sure if it’s been hours or days – you wake up in a hospital bed. A woman with a police shield around her neck stands over you. Even with the hunch on her shoulders, she looks six feet tall.

She’s asking how you feel and her soft brown eyes remind you of Olivia Benson.

You sit up and immediately taste bile. Even though your head feels like it’s underwater, you tell her you’re okay to give a statement.

She looks amused when you offer to describe Alpha Dog to a sketch artist and informs you that they already arrested the attacker. Apparently, a good Samaritan called the cops but not before beating the crap out of him.

You ask whether he got a chance to do anything — you can barely bring yourself to say the words — but she shakes her head and the breath you’ve been holding finally lets out.

When you go back to work a few days later, Sadie insists on driving you home after work. To her credit, she refrains from asking questions.

***

The next night, you refuse Sadie’s offer. You’ve seen what PTSD does to people. You walk home the same way you did that night, except now you carry a Glock G42 instead of mace.

At the metro station, you hand Carlos a turkey club and fries. As you turn to go, he calls out to you and you stop, unsure if you’ve made it up. But when you turn back, he speaks again.

“You should be more careful walking alone at night.”

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